


Paris Holds the Key (to Your Heart)

by LillianLockhart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bets & Wagers, M/M, Modeling, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillianLockhart/pseuds/LillianLockhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken bet with a crafty Irishman leads to a steamy modeling session with a hot blond photographer. When your heart says don’t, the French say do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris Holds the Key (to Your Heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attackonomelas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attackonomelas/gifts).



> Hi Jzaii! I know I didn’t hit everything on your list (some things had to be switched around last minute), but I really hope you enjoy this anyway. Happy reading!

_Harry! Harry! Harry!_

 

Harry Potter gulped down the last of the burning red liquid and slammed the empty mug down on the table, sparking a round of deafening cheers to erupt from the bar patrons around him. A few strangers’ hands clapped him roughly on the back before the crowd moved along to the next hapless partier. Harry shook his head, running the sleeve of his jumper across his mouth to dry it.

 

The tiny French pub was brimming with raucous noise and good cheer in the wake of the Quidditch World Cup that had finally landed England the winner. Many of the inhabitants of this particular pub (Harry included) had had good Galleons placed on England’s success, completely confident in the team’s newest chaser -- Ginny Weasley.

 

Harry had beamed with pride right alongside Ron while Ginny dominated the pitch, looking every bit the professional player she’d set out to become. In the last match, the score had been 200 to 150 against Ireland with the other team unable to do much more than catch the Snitch. For a few moments, he’d allowed himself to imagine that he were in Ginny’s place and almost regretted going for the Auror career instead.

 

Almost.

 

“I don’t think it’s worth all this celebratin’” Seamus Finnegan groused loudly, his Irish accent made thicker from the several pints he’d already thrown back. “England would have lost if two of our chasers weren’t too sick to aim straight.”

 

Harry turned to look at his work partner with a doubtful expression. “They had extra players, so they could have switched. Besides, England’s your home, too,” he pointed out

 

“It’s the principle of the thing, Harry. You’re not Irish - you wouldn’t understand,” Seamus looked away with a sniff, but Harry could tell he wasn’t serious.

 

Harry elbowed him roughly. The two had struck an easy friendship when they’d ended up in the same Auror training class five years ago. After graduation, when Harry had been partnered with Seamus instead of Ron, their camaraderie only grew. He was just as close as ever to Ron and Hermione, but he had been grateful to have someone other than Ginny’s family to talk to when they’d ended things between them two years ago.

 

“Ginny’s gotten pretty good,” Harry mumbled innocently enough, nursing his freshly refilled goblet of something French he couldn’t pronounce.

 

Seamus looked back at him in mild surprise. “She ought to be, hadn’t she? Never seen anyone more dedicated. She’s been practicing day and night for months.”

 

“Has she?” Harry asked, making a conscious effort to keep his voice light.

 

The Irishman furrowed his brow in tipsy confusion. “Don’t you keep in touch wit’ her?”

 

“Not recently,” he muttered noncommittally, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Mostly just at the Burrow for holidays, but she never had much to say to me after . . . “

 

Another sudden round of cheering brought his attention to Neville Longbottom, who (only after the insistence of Harry) had come along. The newly-fit Hogwarts Herbology Professor was over by the counter, bravely planting a drunken kiss square on the barmaid's mouth. The woman was swooning.

 

"Hey, speakin' o' Weasleys, where've Ron and Hermione gotten off to?"

 

Harry tore his eyes away from the scene to meet Seamus' curious leer. "Hermione said something about being tired."

 

The Irishman grinned crookedly, his answering nod sarcastic. "Right, 'course. Sleepin' is surely what those newlyweds are up to. At . . ." He checked his watch-less wrist, "night. On holiday in Paris."

 

"Seamus," Harry said with a nauseated groan at the other man's obscene hand gestures. "I don't--"

 

"Seamus!" called a feminine voice over the noise of the pub as the tall brunette who owned it approached their table.

 

"Margie!" Seamus shouted back with a lopsided grin.

 

"I 'ave been looking for you." She slipped into the only vacant chair at the table and stacked her dainty hands atop one another on the wooden surface. Her sparkling green eyes flitted to Harry. "Ah, so zis must be . . ." 

 

"Harry Potter!" Seamus announced proudly, thumping said hero on the back hard enough to make him choke on his drink. "Sorry, mate."

 

"Oh yes! 'Arry Potter! I 'eard you were at ze World Cup. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. My name is Marquerite Robart."

 

Harry shook the woman’s offered hand with a polite smile. "Pleased to meet you."

 

"How've you been, Margie?" Seamus cut in, raising his glass to her. "You still livin' in Paris?" 

 

"Non, I live in Lyon, but I visit Paris often. When I 'eard of France 'osting ze World Cup, I could not miss it."

 

"'Course not! Why pass up the chance to see France get whipped on their own soil?"

 

" _Very funny,_ " she intoned sarcastically, throwing her straight black hair over her shoulder and tipping her nose upwards.

 

Harry found his attention straying around the pub as the two friends continued their banter. Some of the fans from the Isles had left to seek out other entertainment, so the crowd was getting thinner. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Neville and the barmaid in the far corner, both slightly red-faced as they continued their earlier snogging session. _Good on you_ , Harry thought supportively, feeling just the tiniest bit mopey at the thought of returning to his empty London flat.

 

"Sorry, Margie, Harry here is as bent as they get." Seamus was saying loudly enough to jar Harry from his musings.

 

Harry snapped his attention back to the duo, causing his vision to swim slightly. "What?"

 

The two of them were nearly biting their lips to hide their obvious grins. Before Harry could say anything more, Margie took a deep breath and stood up from the table, politely nodding to Harry. "Well, I must be on my way, Monsieur Potter. I'm glad to 'ave met you, and I 'ope you enjoy your time in Paris. Seamus, would you mind . . . ?"

 

The redheaded man leapt up from the table. "Right! Be right back, Harry!" With that, he and the French woman were walking out of the pub together.

 

Harry frowned at their backs and looked down at his drink. It must have been barely a whole ten seconds later that he felt another presence fill Seamus' chair. A floral scent washed over him, and he looked up to see a smiling woman. Her honey brown hair curled around her slender shoulders as she placed one arm on the table and leaned very subtly closer to him.

 

"I hope I'm not being rude," she began in a clear British accent, white teeth flashing behind red lips. "I couldn’t help but notice that the legendary Harry Potter was sitting over here all alone."

 

Harry was tempted to roll his eyes, but he barely resisted. Instead, he gave her a tight smile and sent a furtive glance towards the door. "My friend actually just left. He'll be right back.”

 

At his clearly disinterested tone, the woman dropped her head forwards, hair falling in front of her face. Her shoulders were shaking.

 

Harry's eyes widened, momentarily thrown. "Er – are you alright?”

 

She looked back up at him, then, and he could see she was laughing. She raised a hand to press against her reddened cheeks as if to cool them. "Ohh. I'm no good at this, am I?”

 

"Sorry?" Harry asked, hopelessly confused. The haze from the alcohol was not helping, either.

 

"Flirting," she said with a sheepish grin. She sighed and gave a slight roll of her eyes. "I was dared to come over and chat up the savior of the wizarding world in exchange for cab fare. My friends – they're trying to get me to come out of my shell. It's hopeless, really, but they persist."

 

He felt himself slowly relax back into his chair as the situation pieced together in his mind. He gave her a tentative smile. "Well, it can't be that hopeless if you're here."

 

She let out a sudden laugh that ended in a snorting noise, which made her hands fly up to cover her face. "Sorry," she giggled again, glancing over her shoulder for a moment. "I suppose that's true, at least."

 

Harry followed her line of sight and found the small group of people that must have been her friends, standing at the far end of the pub, staring over at them with varied expressions of amusement and doubt.

 

"It's better than nothing," the woman was saying reassuringly, bracing to stand. "I'll get out of your hair."

 

He'd only just met this woman, but the thought struck Harry that he didn't want to go back to her friends in defeat. He immediately rose to his feet, the chair screeching against the wooden floor, and he held his hand out to the woman whose name he didn't even know. "How about a dance?"

 

Her mouth formed a small "o" of surprise as she sat frozen. "I.... I don't know how to dance."

 

"Me neither."

 

She laughed again and took his hand, following him to an empty space between the groups of drunken partiers.

 

A few people whistled. They could barely hear the music over the sounds of people shouting at each other and singing badly out of tune, but it was thankfully a slow song. Harry assumed the pose he still remembered from the Yule Ball dancing lessons. Hand in hand, they twirled awkwardly in almost-complete-circles in the small space the crowd afforded them. They struggled to keep up a decent rhythm, but gave up very quickly after she stood on his foot for the third time and promptly erupted into a fit of giggles. Harry didn't suppose they made a very graceful pair to onlookers, but the fact that few people were sober enough to pay attention was at least a little comforting.

 

He leaned in close to the woman's ear and said, "I think you've won the bet."

 

She gave him an amused smile, glancing over towards her friends to confirm that they'd seen her dancing like a loon with Harry Potter. She opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to change her mind on the way. Instead, she said "I'll be right back," and slipped out of his arms.

 

A few moments later, a grinning Seamus reappeared at his side. "Sorry, mate. Had to use the loo. Alright?"

 

"Yeah, alright," Harry smiled, sliding back over to their surprisingly untaken table. "So, are you and Margie....?"

 

Seamus held up his hands. "Nope. Just friends." He grinned, and waggled his eyebrows up and down. "Why? You interested?"

 

Harry threw the other man a deadpan expression.

 

The brunette woman from before was back, placing a torn sheet of paper on the table in front of him. "Just in case. Thanks for the dance, Mr. Potter." She winked and left the pub with her group of friends giggling madly behind her.

 

Seamus' eyes went impossibly wide, pointing from Harry to the leaving girls. "What was that just then? What did I miss? Harry, I left you alone for ten minutes!"

 

"Just a bet," Harry said, picking up the piece of paper and laughing when he realized it was her name, followed by a telephone number. "Too bad I haven't got a phone."

 

"Too bad, that," Seamus agreed, eyeing the piece of paper. "Oh, but now I _have_ got a cellphone, so I'll just-"

 

Harry batted Seamus' hand off and held the paper away, grinning. "Nice try."

 

Seamus pretended to look hurt. "That's not fair, Harry!" He complained loudly. "You’re not even going to call her. What are you going to do? Braid each other's hair and talk about boys?"

 

Harry levelled the Irishman with a stern look. "You want to shout about my sexuality loud enough for all of Paris to hear, or is just this crowd alright? How soon do you think it'd show up in the Prophet? Besides, you didn't earn the number."

 

Seamus crossed his arms, looking put out. "I could have."

 

"You don't even know what happened!"

 

"Don't need to. You were being Harry Potter, and she fell for it! That's what always happens."

 

Harry's eyes bored into him for a few moments. "Seamus, are you jealous?"

 

The other man shook his head from side to side slowly, and gave Harry a reassuring pat on the back. "Yes, absolutely. Which is why you should give me that number so it doesn't go to waste."

 

"Not going to happen." Harry stuffed the paper into his pocket and downed the rest of his drink, ignoring Seamus' mock pout.

 

"Tch, you're no fun," he groused.

 

"Alicia didn't think so," he quipped smugly.

 

Seamus shot him a sideways look. "Such cheek! And her name is Alexis, by the way."

 

"You only saw her for a few seconds. That taken, were you?" Harry asked with genuine interest.

 

There was a light pink dusting of color that appeared on the man's cheeks, just enough for Harry to pick up on, but he shrugged nonchalantly. "I saw her before – at the tournament. Got up the nerve to talk to her and we seemed to get on. Don't think she recognized me, though.

 

Harry was quiet for a few moments. "If you shut up about it, I'll call her and tell her you're interested. Put in a good word, and all that."

 

"You will?" Seamus brightened up, raising his mug. "Cheers locks in it."

 

Harry rolled his eyes and clunked his goblet against Seamus', causing liquid to spill out onto the table. "Yeah, fine."

 

Around half an hour at the most had passed, and Harry was starting to feel much more optimistic in general. The drink, although not very strong, had a calming effect on him. A small group of people had joined their table and were playing some sort of Muggle card game that Harry had stopped trying to follow or understand.

 

"Say, how about a bet, Harry?" Seamus sat down with tray of shot glasses – each one filled with something of a different color and consistency. He was practically buzzing, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Harry looked at the redhead curiously. "I think there've been enough bets tonight.”

 

"A _real_ one!" He was beginning to look like a Cheshire cat as he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "A real _wizard's_ bet.”

 

"Do I have to kiss a barmaid?" Harry laughed.

 

"Nah – too simple. How often are we in France? Let's make it interesting.”

 

Harry narrowed his eyes, although he was starting to lose his ability to focus on one spot. He suddenly noticed he was swaying a little bit. "What do you mean?”

 

Seamus smirked quite devilishly, and Harry was just a little bit too buzzed to remember why seeing that look on this particular man's face was so unnerving.

 

"Don't look so worried, Harry! Would I ever make you do something dangerous?”

 

Harry gave him a pointed look.

 

"Well, yeah, the _one_ time! When else? Come on," Seamus dragged out the last word, grinning. He held out his hand for Harry to shake. "Come on."

 

Rolling his eyes, Harry took the Irishman's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Fine."

 

***

 

When Harry woke up in his hotel room the next morning, it was to blinding pain shooting through his skull. He moaned loudly, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield the sudden burst of light that had come in through the window.

 

"Rise and shine, Harry!"

 

"Shit. Fucking hell, Seamus! What the bloody hell do you think you're – _fuck!_ " Harry smashed his pillow over his face roughly.

 

"Well, you're mouthy today. What's a matter, Harry? Had a bit too much to drink last night?"

 

Harry lifted the pillow so he could deliver his best glare. "Why are you twittering? Fuck off. Let me sleep."

 

"'Fraid I can't do that, Harry. You've got a Wizard's Bet to fulfill." 

 

Harry thought Seamus' voice sounded much too cheerful about it. "Right now? It's too early!"

 

"It's four in the afternoon."

 

" _What?_ " He threw the pillow down and squinted at the alarm clock in dismay. Almost immediately, he let out a low groan and clutched his aching head.

 

"Here," Seamus muttered, pointing his wand at Harry's temple and whispering a spell.

 

A few moments later, the fog weighing on Harry's consciousness cleared and the pain in his head washed away like rain. "Impressive," he sighed in relief.

 

"My specialty."

 

"Wait," Harry sat up suddenly. "I lost the bet? How?"

 

"Mate, you tried." Seamus grinned and spread his arms wide. "But you were no match for an Irishman on holiday."

 

"You knew I'd lose," Harry suddenly accused. "You knew you could goad me into agreeing to your stupid drinking game and lose!"

 

Seamus looked offended. "Drinking isn't a game, Harry," he said seriously.

 

Harry simply gave him an exasperated sigh and a certain hand gesture before clambering uncoordinatedly out of bed and straight into the adjoining shower room, slamming the door with a bang.

 

He turned on the shower tap and waited for the water to heat up. His reflection over the sink told him his hair was even more of a mess than usual; there was a red mark on his lip where he must have split it, and it stood out starkly against his tired, pale complexion. All in all, he thought it could be worse. He'd once spent an entire week in a foreign prison, posing as a criminal to gather information. He didn't imagine he could wake up in much worse shape than he did then.

 

When the mirror began to fog, he stepped into the shower and sighed as soon as the hot water poured over his head. He felt his muscles begin to loosen and rolled his shoulders. There were very few events he remembered from last night. He remembered Seamus ordering several rounds of Things-He-Couldn't-Pronounce. He had a vague memory of standing on top of a table. Or was that just Seamus? Neville?

 

The memory of him and Seamus clasping hands in a firm shake swam forward, and he recalled the bright purple light that pulsed from their palms as Harry repeated the oath. What _was_ it he'd agreed to again? Something about photographs. He'd barely understood it at the time, but it had seemed easy as pie. Harry was still highly sought after by wizarding media, even after all this time. People were frequently taking his photograph, so he couldn't imagine taking them with permission would be so bad.

 

Even with whatever the hell "boo-dwar" meant. Honestly, he hadn't even been arsed to ask-

 

Harry froze, his eyes snapping open to stare blindly at the shower wall.

 

_Boudoir._

 

He suddenly remembered the time he had happened upon some photos when he'd dropped by uninvited at the Weasleys' flat one evening. Hermione, her face beet red, had had to explain that she'd taken "boudoir" photos as a Christmas gift for Ron. He felt sick as the image of Hermione he thought he’d repressed came floating into his mind; and his imagination helpfully inserted himself in her place, wearing lacy lingerie and posing cat-like on a velvet chaise.

 

The bathroom door swung open and an angry Harry Potter stormed back into the hotel room, clutching a towel around his waist. Seamus' name died on his tongue, however, as he noticed the room was again empty of obnoxious, sneaky gits.

 

Instead, a neatly pressed set of clothes lay on the bed with a note on top. Harry glanced around the room once more before plucking up the note.

 

_Harry,_

_I've taken the liberty of setting up your appointment for 7 PM tonight. I knew you'd not have brought anything decent to wear, so you can borrow these. I'm sure you've forgotten the terms, so here they are: show up, do whatever the photographer says, and don't tell anyone you lost a bet until it's over._

_Seamus_

_P.S. Don't bother trying to chicken out. This is a wizard's bet. _

 

Hours later, Harry realized he had no idea where this so-called photography studio was located in the first place. He was back in the pub from last night – much quieter during the daylight hours – sitting alone at a table, a plate of barely-finished marinated chicken pushed to the side and an empty wine glass beside it. Although his stomach was in knots, he was considerably calmer now. His eyes were glued to the Muggle watch on his wrist, which read 6:59 PM. What would happen if he missed his appointment? Harry had a surge of hope that Seamus had been bluffing, and that he could simply stay here all night. It sounded much better than the vast chasm of the unknown waiting for him out there.

 

The moment it began, Harry’s hope plummeted. The strange, tingly burst of magic erupted in his chest before it spread, winding snake-like around his limbs. The muscles in his legs twitched as if in warning; he quickly threw some Galleons onto the table - probably too much - and barely had time to grab his robe before he found himself rising jerkily from his chair, which scraped noisily against the wooden floor as he did so. Blood rushed in his ears and dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, but his legs moved him to the door with no hesitation, reaching it in five long steps. He barrelled right into another Englishman - “Oi! What’s the hurry?” - without stopping, and Harry wasn’t sure his breathless “sorry” was audible.

 

Outside, the crowded streets of wizarding Paris were covered in a heavy fog. The sounds of shoes clacking on the cobbles were reverberating more than they should have, and Harry was sure passersby could hear his labored breathing and quickened heartbeat. Why couldn’t Seamus have picked something easier - like French-kissing a thestral or skydiving from an aeroplane? Whatever happened to _normal_ dares?

 

After what couldn’t have been more than five minutes of walking, the magical force waned, and Harry stumbled as he quickly regained control of his limbs. He had been turned down an alleyway off the main street, but it bore no resemblance to those in Diagon Ally. This one was brightly lit and full of small shops and pots of flowers that lined the brick storefronts, making the alleyway smell like a garden. Most of the windows were shuttered, probably closed for the evening, but very few of the doors were marked. Except for one: _La Petite Fleuriste_ , read an overhanging sign, complete with an engraving of a rose.

 

Harry looked around, but could not see anything that resembled a photography studio. The magic laid unhelpfully dormant.

 

Just then, the door beneath the florist sign opened and a bell tinkled as a short, thin woman with white hair waddled out. She was balancing a large wooden crate on her hip.

 

“ _J-Je m’excuse_ ,” Harry tried, feeling more than a little awkward. He’d memorized the phrase from a small book Hermione had lent him, but he wasn’t sure how to go about something as random as asking for a boudoir studio.

 

The woman turned around sharply and pinned him with a curious stare, her sky-blue eyes striking against her tanned face. She waited expectantly, her expression one of impatience.

 

Harry reached for his pocket, plucking out the little dictionary and smiled at her apologetically. He flipped through the pages until he found something he could use, “Er - _Je cherche_ . . .” he began, hoping she could understand his probably horrible pronunciation. “ _Le_ ,” he murmured, flipping through more pages before shrugging helplessly. “Photography studio?”

 

As though pondering on a riddle, the white-haired lady frowned and shifted her weight in silence for a few moments. She inspected his robes - the typical black “off-duty” set he wore instead of his Auror ones - and his messy black hair and flushed cheeks. She gave him a smirk - not a smile, but a full-on _smirk_ and nodded her head to Harry’s right.

 

He followed the motion and saw another unnamed shop with a deep, emerald-green door. There was a pristine-looking bicycle leaning against the wall next to it, along with large planters of daffodils on either side. Just as nondescript as the rest of the businesses down this street; he probably would not have picked it as his first guess.

 

“ _Bonne chance!_ ” he heard the older woman call out over her shoulder, laughing, as he headed the other way.

 

Harry didn’t know quite what to make of her. “Thank you,” he replied uncertainly before stepping towards the green door and clasping the cold, wet door handle. _Please let this one be some kind, old woman._ The door groaned ominously and a bell rang out as he wrenched it open more firmly than he’d meant to.

 

The inside of the studio was dim, and there were several portraits arranged on the walls - each with a different man or woman posed in a non-explicit, but undeniably sensual pose. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he tentatively ventured inside, noticing the dark green waiting-area sofas that looked far too luxurious and the large, ornate rug covering the middle of the floor.

 

A male voice broke the silence, tossing the lilting, melodious noises of the French language at him from somewhere to his right - a place that must contain the front desk and a place which he’d been pointedly ignoring up until now. The voice sounded bored and almost dismissive, but it inflected like a question. Harry turned his head and dragged his eyes up to the person behind the desk. The man didn’t look up from whatever he was doing as he spoke, but his unmistakable platinum blond hair and barely concealed features were all that were necessary for Harry to be sent into a panic.

 

And now he realized why the voice, even in a different language, had felt somehow familiar and had plucked at his nerves. Harry stood frozen, staring at his old school rival in horror. _This isn’t happening,_ he thought frantically. He was _not_ about to be undressed and photographed by Draco sodding Malfoy. Visions of Malfoy taunting him about his appearance and then promptly releasing all photos to the Daily Prophet assaulted his mind, and Harry turned swiftly towards the door.

 

Draco was saying something in French again, and Harry felt the magic in him burst to life once more. He nearly groaned aloud as it spun him back around and brought him up to the counter, bringing Malfoy into clearer view as he spoke, and Harry ignored the strange feeling that washed over him as he watched the man’s lips move around the foreign words that were going in one ear and out the other. He was clearly fluent, and Harry told himself the only reason he felt like he was practically _melting_ to it was because it was such a surprise. He didn’t even know Malfoy had known any other languages at all, let alone the one that was his favourite. In fact, he should be rather annoyed. He _was_ annoyed. Harry clenched his fists. "Malfoy."

 

The blond became utterly still. Slowly, he raised his head and met Harry’s wide-eyed gaze. “Potter,” he said in the familiar drawl Harry was used to. “What are you doing here?” In the next instant, his expression became stony. “Wait. I should have known you’d be here for the Cup. Someone must have told you I was here and now you’ve come to make a mockery of me. Go on, then, Potter, tell me how much-”

 

" _What_ are you on about?" Harry interrupted, momentarily stalled. "Nobody told me you were here. I had no idea you were . . . doing . . ." He gestured lamely to the portraits on the wall, feeling his cheeks heat up. "This."

 

"Yes. _This_." Malfoy repeated with venom. "So tell me, am I really expected to believe that Saint Harry Potter needs some saucy shag-me photos for a lover back home?" His tone was dripping with sarcasm.

 

Harry suddenly recalled his reason for coming here. He knew he was blushing fiercely, and he wished the ground would open up and swallow him so he wouldn’t have to go through with it. However, the floor stayed solidly intact and now the magic was swirling to life again and Harry’s mouth snapped open. In the next instance, he was telling him, “Yes, actually. Are you always this forward with your customers?”

 

Malfoy’s jaw clenched visibly. “How did you find me? My studio is not listed publicly and you’re not a local.”

 

He’d been about to say “Seamus,” but his mouth clamped shut. Apparently, that was too close to breaking the condition of not mentioning the bet. “Er,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “A friend recommended this place. They didn’t mention it was you, though.”

 

The blond simply stared at him, eyes narrowed, until Harry was beginning to worry that he was using Legilimency.

 

It occurred to him that if Malfoy told him to leave, he would be forced to do just that. The spell would undoubtedly be broken. He felt hope bloom in his chest and he chose his next words carefully. “Malfoy . . . if you don’t believe me, you don’t have to accept my business. If you tell me to leave, I won’t blame you.”

 

“If I didn’t believe you, you’d already be out on your arse,” Malfoy told him matter-of-factly, crossing his arms in front of him.

 

Harry’s gaze was drawn by the motion to the forearms resting across the blond’s chest. The crisp oxford shirt he wore fit snugly, revealing just how, well, _fit,_ the former Slytherin had become. One of the last times he’d seen Malfoy in person was at the trails, where he’d looked malnourished and ill. While still lean and pale, he appeared to be in perfect health now.

 

Malfoy dropped his arms quickly and Harry snapped his eyes back up to the other man’s face, cringing internally when he realized he’d been staring. “Oh, _please,_ ” the blond scoffed. “As if I need anymore reminders of a past that I can’t change.”

 

With a start, Harry belated remembered the Dark Mark. He hadn’t noticed if it was there - hadn’t even been looking for it, but he wasn’t about to correct his assumption. The truth was a little more unsettling, so he stayed silent.

 

“You may be surprised to find that I do have a life and a career now that does not revolve around you.”

 

Harry thought Malfoy sounded a lot like Snape just then. “That’s not what I-”

 

“The point _is_ , Potter, that I don’t want to let the past control me.”

 

“You think I do?” Harry demanded, eyebrows knitted together.

 

“Or maybe you’re just afraid.” The corner of Malfoy’s lips were creeping up minutely. “I’m _very_ scary. If you wanted to run away now . . .” he nodded in mock sympathy. “I won’t blame you.”

 

Harry scowled at him. “Fine,” he growled and his hands flew to the front of his robes, unfastening the clasp. “Just -- fine.” He shrugged them off, rolled the cloth up into a ball and tossed it at Malfoy, who caught it easily. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

For the first time in a handful of years, Malfoy treated him to that oh-so-familiar smirk, and Harry found he had not grown immune to it in the least. The breath caught in his throat, and there was a swooping sensation in his stomach as the blond draped his robes carefully across the back of a chair and stepped out from behind the large desk.

 

"I assume you're my seven o'clock. You didn't mention a name when you Owled your payment. You are late, by the way. I will not be refunding you for lost time. We have an hour and a half to complete your session. I have a meeting at nine-thirty, so let's get started." Malfoy had Summoned a giant book from a nearby shelf, stepping close enough to Harry for him to notice his scent - a mixture of what was probably very expensive soaps and an underlying, unidentifiable musk that, to his horror, he found he had to actively try _not_ to lean in closer to get more of.

 

Harry could only nod mutely. He wondered just how much Seamus had shelled out for this elaborate joke. He didn’t imagine it was cheap, with Malfoy running it and all.

 

Malfoy flipped open a thick book of forms and handed Harry a peacock feather quill. He proceeded to rattle off what sounded like typical legal jargon. Harry obediently nodded his head rather numbly and signed here and there. Yes, he understood the company was not responsible for lost or stolen objects. Yes, he acknowledged this agreement and its proceedings were completely confidential in the name of privacy.

 

Finally, Malfoy slammed the book shut and fished a golden key out of his pocket.

 

“What are you doing?” Harry nearly squeaked when Malfoy took it to the front door.

 

The blonde paused, looking over his shoulder with a quirked eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you prefer a public show?” Without waiting for an answer from a now-pale Harry, he proceeded to lock the exit with a loud clink that caused Harry’s pulse to spike. “Wait out here. Let me get you something for those nerves,” Malfoy drawled, smirking broadly.

 

Harry cursed under his breath the moment Malfoy disappeared into another room behind the desk. His feet tingled from the magic that rooted him to the spot, but he glanced at the door longingly. A dreadful thought occurred to him. He was trapped by magic, forced to follow the every command of The Biggest Prat Alive, whose sole ambition in life at one time seemed to be driving him insane - who _still,_ apparently, drove him insane. What had he gotten himself into? He pinched himself on the arm for good measure and winced.

 

When he didn’t miraculously wake up in his bed, he sighed, cursing Seamus and his stupid bet. Speaking of which, he’d apparently gone through quite a bit of trouble to set this up. He planned it, paid in advance, and even dressed him for it. Had Seamus known who the photographer was? Because it was almost as if he’d been set up on a-

 

Harry suddenly thought he now understood what was going on and suppressed a weary groan.

 

It had been almost a year now since Harry had come out to his most trusted friends. They'd all been very understanding and supportive. However, Seamus had been a little _too_ supportive. He'd found himself introduced to dozens of the Irishman's – coincidentally gay – friends, been set up on two blind dates that failed, and had even been "accidentally" trapped in a Ministry broom closet with a sandy-haired Unspeakable that Seamus had once caught him glancing at in the lifts. That had just been more awkward than anything else. But that had been nearly two months ago now, so Harry'd been sure Seamus was over his strange fixation on playing matchmaker.

 

Apparently not. Either Seamus was trying to set him up with Malfoy or this was really just a giant joke. Harry rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. Either way, he supposed it was time to have a long, serious chat with Seamus about staying the hell out of his love life.

 

In the meantime -

 

"Malfoy." He blurted before he really thought about his question.

 

The blond popped back into the entryway, sending Harry an impatient, questioning look.

 

“You didn’t know I was in Paris?” Harry wanted to clarify. “You had no idea I was going to be in your studio tonight?”

 

Malfoy heaved a dramatic sigh and moved into the room, carrying a stark white teacup in one hand. With the other, he made a subtle circling motion using his index finger. The small spoon inside began to swirl the contents as if charmed.

 

Harry blinked in surprise.

 

“Full of yourself, as usual,” Malfoy was saying as he stalked forward. “That much hasn’t changed. To answer your question, Potter, no – I don’t follow your every move.”

 

Harry’s eyes seemed glued to Malfoy’s approaching form – lean and almost predatory – and didn’t look up to meet his gaze until he’d realized they were just a little too close. It felt like a power play, and Harry was almost grateful for the magic that did not allow him to take a step back. Stormy grey eyes bored into his, and he struggled with a sudden and surprising bout of amnesia. What had he meant to say? It certainly wasn’t, “You can do wandless magic?” but the question escaped his lips in a rush anyway.

 

Malfoy blinked once before glancing down at the teacup as if he’d forgotten about it. He laid his free hand over it to still the teaspoon. “It’s just a little charm, Potter,” he said with a smirk. “There’s a lot more where that came from.”

 

The odd phrase turned itself over in his mind. Harry didn't know whether Malfoy was flirting or simply making fun of him. Charms had not been his best subject, after all. His mind settled on the latter, because he didn't think the words 'Malfoy is flirting with Harry Potter' would ever be in the same sentence or even in the same universe.

 

After a few seconds of baited silence, Malfoy raised the object in his hand – the smirk gone. “Tea,” he said, pressing the warm cup into Harry’s hand.

 

Thankful for the deflection, Harry allowed himself to relish in the warmth seeping through the porcelain. Considering the very real possibility that it could be poisoned, he sipped at the fragrant tea as calmly as he could under the circumstances.

 

_Click._

 

Harry tore his gaze back up to the blond man in surprise, finding him stood a few feet away with a camera pointed straight at him. "What-"

 

"It's part of my method, Potter." _Click._ "You've got to be comfortable with the camera. Just try to relax and get used to it."

 

 _Relax and get used to it,_ Harry thought sarcastically, feeling decidedly _not_ relaxed or used to it. He sighed, attempting to ignore the sound of the camera’s shutter and instead focus on the tea. It was chamomile, impressively flavorful and without any particles of the flower floating in it. He wondered idly what sort of tea Malfoy liked. He looked up curiously.

 

Malfoy lowered his camera and smirked. “Good. In here, Potter.” Malfoy gestured widely to the door labelled ‘Studio 1.’

 

Inside the surprisingly large room, there were several areas set up like scenes that distantly reminded him of old television programmes he had caught peeks of when the Dursley's weren’t watching him. In one area was – of course – a grey chaise lounge surrounded by various props; another one at the back of the room held nothing but a pure white bed. Natural sunlight poured in through enchanted, frosted windows, making the lighting soft and warm.

 

Malfoy shut the door to the studio behind them with a snap, breaking Harry from his thoughts.

Turning to face the former Slytherin, Harry drained the rest of his tea, his eyes not leaving Malfoy’s from over the rim of the cup.

 

Malfoy crooked a finger. "Come here."

 

There was another rush of feeling in his stomach, and Harry marveled at almost having forgotten the sheer force of the magic from before that now pulled him to a stop within arm's reach of his former rival.

 

The blond reached out to grab the teacup, his fingers brushing against Harry’s in a way that he would have thought was deliberate if it had been anyone else. In the next moment, Malfoy was brushing particles of black fabric from Harry’s robe from the white shirt he’d worn underneath. He was all-business, circling around him and adjusting what he found fault with as though Harry were a doll. The material of Harry's shirt was thin, and every brush of Malfoy's hands was warm and sent an oddly pleasant jolt through him that he was studiously ignoring.

 

“What about this lover of yours, Potter?" Malfoy was saying as he continued his grooming. "I know it’s not the she-weasel. She’s become a popular topic in the local magazines as of late, and it’s no small issue how she’s taken up with one of the team’s beaters.”

 

Harry kept his face carefully blank. “I didn’t know that. I don’t read the papers. But no, of course it’s not her.”

 

A curious flash of guilt passed across Malfoy’s features before it was gone, replaced with indifference. His nose wrinkled suddenly. “It’s not Granger, is it?”

 

Harry scowled. “No!”

 

“Alright,” Malfoy conceded, raising his hands defensively. “Then who?”

 

Harry sighed helplessly. What was he supposed to say? “You don’t know him.”

 

“Him?” The blonde’s eyebrows shot up.

 

 _Shit._ He froze. _Good job, Harry. Why don’t you just go straight to the Prophet and give the exclusive to Skeeter personally?_ “Well, uh. I mean, I-”

 

“It’s alright, Potter, I’ve no desire to run to the press about you being bent. It’s not like I have room to judge you there.”

Harry tried to meet Malfoy’s averted eyes and wondered why this admission felt more significant than it should have. “You’re...?”

 

Malfoy nodded, shrugged, and changed the subject, “So, what’s he like?”

 

Harry couldn’t respond for a moment, because suddenly Malfoy's hands were in his hair, fingers running against his scalp and leaving tingles in their wake. The sensation was _very_ distracting, and he hadn’t thought his cover story through at all. But Merlin, Harry was suddenly unsure if he'd ever had his hair touched like this before. He was sorely tempted to close his eyes.

 

Malfoy cleared his throat and quickly removed his hands. "Your hair's a nightmare. A glaringly unchanged feature, Potter. I think it’s safe to assume it’s hopeless at this point. Well, out with it! I need to know what sort of photo shoot we’ll be doing."

 

He scrambled for something to say. “Well, he’s … handsome….”

 

Malfoy simply blinked at him in the most sardonic way he could manage.

 

“And funny?”

 

“Sounds like a truly complicated soul,” was the muttered reply. “We’ll play it by ear.” Malfoy stepped back to look at his subject. Grey eyes dragged up and down Harry’s body, taking in the casual attire Seamus had lent him. They were a simple pair of faded Muggle denims and a white button-up with a slim tie, but all much more fitted than Harry normally liked. “Have you ever been a model before, Potter?”

 

Harry laughed and shook his head. “Never.”

 

Malfoy tutted to himself and retrieved his wand from his pocket - obviously enchanted to prevent it from ruining the lines of his clothing - and pointed it straight at Harry’s trousers, muttering a spell. Shimmering, colourless sparks shot out at him.

 

“Woah.” Harry reflexively cringed. He took a step back, but nothing more seemed to have happened.

 

“A concealment charm,” Malfoy explained, smirking. “Standard procedure.”

 

For a moment, Harry simply tilted his head at the blond, confused. When he received an odd, prompting look in return, it dawned on him, and he felt the blush slowly creep back up his neck. “Right,” he said thickly.

 

“Lean against that wall there,” Malfoy pointed to an area in the corner with a tall brick wall that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. “I’ll start you off with something simple.”

 

Harry spun on his heel and complied, finding his way to the center of the wall. He pressed his back into the solid surface and, not knowing what to do with his hands, crossed his arms over his chest.

 

Malfoy only frowned at him. “You’re going to have to be a lot looser than this if you want decent photos, Potter. You look like you’re about to face your boggart. Not very seductive.” 

 

“I’m uncomfortable,” Harry complained irritably.

 

“Here,” Malfoy stepped into Harry’s personal space again, hands finding the knot in his tie. It was tied tight, probably due to the fact that he’d dressed angrily, so he was stuck staring at the blond up close until he finally got it loose.

 

They were nearly the same height, Harry realized, as he watched the nearly golden eyelashes lower over his downcast eyes, nearly touching his cheeks. Malfoy has really nice skin. He frowned at the unbidden thought.

 

Once the knot was undone, Malfoy dropped his hands to grasp Harry’s arms and pull them down. “Don’t cross your arms like that,” he said. “Hook your thumbs in your pocket like this. It looks more natural and inviting.” He took a step back to examine the new pose. Apparently not satisfied, Malfoy stepped closer again and Harry’s heart leapt when he reached forward and placed both hands on his waist.

 

Then the hands slid down to his hips and pulled them sharply forward to within inches of his own. Harry gasped and hoped it wasn’t as loud as it was in his own ears. Malfoy said nothing, instead removing his right hand and pressing it into Harry’s shoulder to push it back firmly against the wall. They stood like that for a few moments as the blond seemed to be thinking, his hands still practically scorching Harry’s skin wherever they’d touched.

 

“Let me give you some good advice for the inexperienced model,” Malfoy said. His voice had gone quieter to suit their proximity. Without warning, Malfoy’s hands found the top button of Harry’s shirt and unfastened it. “Trust me.” He moved on to the next and then the next, not meeting Harry’s eyes, but punctuating them with pieces of ‘advice’ that the magic in Harry’s body interpreted as commands, judging by the way it pulsed each time. “Don’t overthink everything. Remember to breathe. And be _flirtatious,_ if you can manage it. These photos are supposed to be romantic, after all.”

 

Harry said nothing, his eyes unable to leave the blond’s nimble hands as they worked on the buttons expertly. He could have easily been asked to do this himself, he dimly realized. Undressing models must be something Malfoy was used to. He stamped down on the sudden cheated feeling that intruded at the thought. This was _not_ a romantic interest.

 

Once he was done, the shirt fell open and Harry felt cool air hit his skin.

 

Malfoy seemed to hesitate for a moment before running his hands down the front to smooth the fabric of the shirt down, and Harry couldn’t stop the shudder that tore through him at feeling those hands run over the muscles in his abdomen. Malfoy’s eyes flickered up to his in surprise as if caught, but he blinked and stepped back quickly. “There,” Malfoy said slowly. “Stay like this.” And then Malfoy was moving away to grab his camera.

 

The sounds of the shutter filled the air - the air which was now distinctly different than it had been a few moments ago. It was thicker and warmer, and Harry fought to regain control of his breathing.

 

"Look at me," Malfoy instructed.

 

Maybe he'd meant "the camera," but the magic within Harry seemed to be taking him a little more literally than that. Malfoy stood a few paces away, his eyes hidden by the expensive-looking piece of equipment. So Harry felt his gaze rove slowly over the blond (once again) as he worked, from the dark tailored trousers to the narrow waist accentuated with a leather belt. He noticed the way the shirt was beginning to untuck itself from the waistband of the trousers when Malfoy crouched over to choose a different lens from a case by the door. His gaze followed the path of his torso, lingering on the exposed forearms that Harry suddenly had a worrying temptation to touch, and continued up past his shoulders and toward the part of the man's head that he could still see. The hair was just as platinum blond as he remembered, but instead of being gelled back or hanging loosely around his face, it looked soft and was arranged in a way that reminded him of those male fashion models wearing suits that probably cost more than twice his earnings at the Ministry – war hero status or not. It just wasn't fair, and Harry wanted to mess it up. Mentally groaning at his own thoughts, he bit his lower lip in an attempt to keep them to himself. He was very grateful for the concealment charm that kept his interest hidden. Things would have gotten awkward as what was very obviously full-blown attraction made itself known in Harry’s tumultuous thoughts. If he’d been attracted to Malfoy as an adolescent (which he had spent a few eye-opening nights alone discovering), it was nothing compared to how his body reacted to this older, more sophisticated version. “Gladly.” The response had flown from his thoughts to his mouth too quickly for Harry to stop it. His voice had pitched low and traitorously _flirty_ and now he was watching for the blond’s reaction, eyes wide.

 

The clicking noises stopped. Malfoy seemed frozen, but was upon him again in the next moment, instructing him into a different pose and then another one – all pretty casual compared to the images hung up in the lobby. The man was all business now, guiding him vocally instead of physically, and Harry allowed himself to be ordered around the room – his body sometimes responding even before he could fully process the words – and just listened to Malfoy's voice being strangely devoid of any of the smugness Harry would have expected from him in this situation. Occasionally, Malfoy would give up on explaining and come closer to physically move him or the props around him as if he were a mannequin in a doll house, which he supposed was an appropriate description.

 

It wasn’t until he was lying across the dreaded chaise that he felt properly vulnerable again. He'd already removed his tie and glasses, and was watching a slightly blurry Malfoy step back to look at his handiwork. What felt like too many seconds slipped by, so Harry finally opened his mouth. _Don't say anything stupid._ "Like what you see? Maybe you should take a picture." _Oh my God._

 

Malfoy stepped closer, shaking his head. “Ha ha,” he intoned sarcastically, but Harry could clearly see the ghost of a small, crooked smile on his face. In the next moment, he reached out and grabbed Harry's wrist, pushing it up and over his head to press into the soft cushion of the chaise.

 

Just like all the other times the blond had touched him, Harry's pulse leapt and he attempted to pour all of his attention into _not saying or doing anything._

 

Malfoy’s right hand fell to the front of his open shirt and slipped under the material to push it to the side, barely skating over Harry’s bared - and suddenly strangely sensitive - skin, who suppressed a shiver and barely managed to control the urge to arch up into the touch. As the blond arranged the fabric, he glanced up as if to check on him.

 

Harry averted his gaze quickly, which then focused on the smooth, unmarked skin of Malfoy’s left arm that was still pinning his right hand in place near his head. He was overtaken by a strong urge to touch it - just to see whether he would feel any trace of the Dark Mark that had once been there. As neither hand was free, he found his only option was the craziest one. The moment the idea struck, it was too late, and his lips were brushing against the underside of Malfoy’s forearm. He barely registered the gasp from the other man as he was preoccupied by the realization that it was _still there._ He could feel the invisible lines of raised flesh and, before he could properly decide against it, his tongue darted out to outline what he imagined was the curve of the snake’s body.

 

“Potter,” Malfoy gasped again and wrenched his arm away, staring at Harry as if he’d grown a second head. “What are you doing?”

 

What _was_ he doing? Harry thought frantically. He was acting deranged, as if the past two years without intimacy had waited until this very moment to finally crack him. “I -” Harry cleared his throat to try to shake the raspiness of it. “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know,” the blond repeated, practically tearing himself away as he turned to face the opposite wall, quietly mumbling a stream of French that probably wasn’t very polite. Harry watched him, more than a little curious. The possibility that he could break Malfoy’s composure, even a little bit, was enormously interesting. When Malfoy turned back around, his expression was neutral and he simply lifted his camera, apparently intent on ignoring the lapse in Harry’s sanity. Malfoy leapt back into his work, only now he stuck to ordering Harry around instead of going anywhere near him.

 

But as far as Harry was concerned, the damage couldn’t be undone.

 

A few moments later, at the blond’s demand, Harry had tossed his shirt to join his growing pile of removed clothing.

 

“The trousers, too.”

 

Harry hesitated.

 

"Hurry up," Malfoy snapped.

 

“Eager, are we?” Harry rose his eyebrows suggestively, letting a playful grin steal over his face at Malfoy’s absolute silence and the way his eyes followed Harry’s hands when they dropped to his belt. He fumbled and pushed at the material until it, too, lay in a heap next to the rest of his clothes. The boxer-briefs he wore underneath the trousers were his own – grey with red and gold stripes around the waist.

 

It was Malfoy’s turn to grin. " _Tres_ Gryffindor."

 

Harry felt his face warm, but he couldn’t banish his grin.

 

"Over here," Malfoy instructed, walking behind a curtain to another set-up of what appeared to be a pristine white bathroom outfitted with a clawfoot tub and a tower of fluffy white towels. With a wave of his wand, the lighting dimmed and several candles strategically placed around the area burst to life, adding a flickering glow.

 

"Really?" Harry deadpanned, giving the blond a raised eyebrow.

 

"This was specifically requested in your owl," Malfoy shrugged. "Grab a towel and cover up, then remove the pants.”

 

Harry grinned, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of the last thing keeping his modesty. "Don’t you want to help me--”

 

"Get the towel, you git," Malfoy snapped, pointing to it emphatically, but his smile belied his tone.

 

Harry sighed dramatically, grabbing a fluffy towel and wrapping it around his hips before shimmying out of the pants. The towels must have been treated to the same concealment charm as his trousers, he noticed. He held the red and gold cloth with one hand, pulled the waistband with his other, and flung it at Malfoy's head.

 

It blew past the blond’s head, missing by a hair.

 

“Nice shot.” Malfoy laughed for the first time, and Harry found it was deliciously charming.

 

"If I had my glasses on, it would have hit you.”

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night," Malfoy deadpanned.

 

Harry found himself grinning wider, adjusting the towel to drag it down an inch more. “Are you offering?”

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically before he fetched his wand and aimed it Harry. " _Aguamenti!_ "

 

What felt like buckets of water sluiced over Harry's head and shoulders, and he sputtered. "What the hell was that for?"

 

"We have to complete the scene." Malfoy said simply, raising his camera.

 

Harry frowned, wiping the water from his eyes and clutching onto the towel. He waited patiently under the pretense of posing. Once Malfoy had ventured close enough, he shook his head, flinging water from his hair in every direction.

 

The undignified sound coming from Malfoy was worth it, and Harry couldn't help the peals of laughter that followed.

 

Malfoy only glared at him, touching his hair to be sure it was dry.

 

"Here, let me help," Harry suggested, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. He could feel water droplets still cascading down his arms and chest.

 

"I don't think so." Raising his wand again, Malfoy flicked it once and he was dry again. He waved it once more, and Harry was sent flying backwards through the air.

 

Harry braced himself, but landed on something remarkably soft and bouncy. It was the bed. The towel had miraculously stayed wet and stuck to his skin, so he peeled it off, covering himself quickly with the rumpled duvet instead. He swiveled his head back around to watch Malfoy's approach and batted his eyelashes at him coyly. "Going to join me?"

 

From what he could see around the camera despite his blurry vision, Malfoy's ever-present smirk grew and he rolled his eyes again. "I think you're taking the flirting advice a bit too seriously. You could do with _less_ flirting," he said.

 

"Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?" Harry asked innocently, rolling over to lie on his stomach and rest his head on top of his crossed arms. He peeked over the top of his bicep at Malfoy, who seemed to have gone completely silent again in favor of attending to his work.

 

He knew in the back of his mind that he must look ridiculous, but he couldn't dredge up the ability to be bothered by it. He'd known his dignity was a lost cause the moment he'd walked in and saw Malfoy. The man was even more stupidly attractive than he'd been at school or even in the occasional photo that had "crossed Harry's path" over the years. He may have been unpopular around the most prejudiced families back in the day, but there was no doubt that Witch Weekly didn't take that view.

The bed dipped and Harry's heart leapt, but Malfoy was only getting a new angle. When Harry turned himself over onto his back, he saw Malfoy kneeling at the foot of the mattress.

 

Malfoy shifted closer until he had one knee planted on either side of Harry's legs, effectively trapping him in place. He was still working the camera, absorbed in his work. 

 

Harry, a wicked smile on his face, raised his knees so that Draco would pitch forward.

 

"Oof!" Malfoy exclaimed, falling heavily on top of Harry. The camera, thankfully, swung to the side and out of the way and Harry’s hands immediately reached up to find Malfoy’s sides, toying with the bunched fabric of his shirt. "Potter,” he began, lifting himself up onto his elbows.

 

“Call me Harry.”

 

“Potter,” Malfoy said more firmly. “I - What are - What are you doing?”

 

Harry’s hands had pulled the shirt free and were now drawing circles on his skin. Instead of answering, he lifted his head to close the distance and gently brushed his lips against Malfoy’s, marveling in the sparks of sensation that it caused. Though the blond was still, Harry moved his lips lightly, barely making contact against his mouth in a teasing invitation. For added measure, he drove his hips upwards, his erection grinding into Malfoy’s groin through the blanket.

 

With a broken sound, Malfoy’s resolve crumbled. He took Harry’s face in both hands and deepened the kiss.

 

His head was spinning, but he inwardly cheered, redoubling his efforts to remove Malfoy’s shirt. This time, the blond cooperated by removing his hands from Harry and unfastening the buttons expertly, their mouths never disconnecting. It was quite an impressive show of core strength, Harry thought. He delighted in the way Malfoy shivered when he ran his hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and down his back. He began fumbling at the leather belt.

 

Malfoy broke the kiss, but didn’t move away.. In a show of impatience, he retrieved his wand once more and simply Vanished the duvet and then his own trousers. The resulting contact of skin on skin made him gasp. Then Malfoy angled his hips and Harry suddenly knew what he’d been wondering about the entire session as their equally hardened cocks grinded together, sending waves of pleasure through him. Malfoy was rambling something in French again, and he punctuated his words with little bites to Harry’s bottom lip, chasing them with a swipe of his tongue as though to sooth it.

 

He could have been reciting one of Kingsley’s mind-numbingly boring reports and Harry would still feel the same thrill racing through his body at the sound of it flowing from Malfoy’s lips like a sonnet. However, curiosity got the better of him. “As nice as that sounds, can you speak in English? I have no idea what you’re saying.” He found his voice coming out low and raspy.

 

The blond blinked slowly in confusion as he lifted himself up on his elbows. “I didn’t mean to.”

 

Harry laughed, bumping against Draco’s chest as he did so. “That’s incredibly fucking sexy,” he admitted without an ounce of embarrassment.

 

“So are you,” Draco whispered back, lowering himself down for another kiss.

 

Harry felt his stomach flip again and couldn’t help smiling against the blond’s mouth.

 

The kisses soon became heated and Harry lost himself in the sensations, practically crooning with giddiness at every small noise he managed to pull from the normally reserved and unruffled blond. “Draco,” he muttered, drawing the name out when said man reached down to finally grasp Harry’s length in his hand.

 

The blond moaned, and then lifted up to break the kiss suddenly. “Harry,” he began.

 

Harry grinned. “I like the way you say my name.”

 

Draco smirked, leaning back down to place open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “Harry,” he practically whispered in his ear. “Harry, Harry,”

 

“Yes,” Harry moaned, thrusting his hips to prompt Draco’s hand to move. “Metlin, I've wanted this. Thought about it," Harry found himself admitting uncontrollably. "Thought about _you_. Often."

 

With a sudden movement, Draco sat up. He was still straddling, and his hand was still wrapped around Harry’s cock, not minding the precum that glistening on his fingers, but his face was serious. “You -- what?”

 

Harry blinked. “What?”

 

“You sound almost as if you’ve been harboring a crush on me or something,” he said, half laughing.

 

Curiously, he still had it in him to blush. He swallowed and opened his mouth, but he suddenly couldn’t make himself form words as Draco stared at him expectantly.

 

_Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt_

 

"Merde!" Malfoy exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and fishing what looked like a Muggle pager out of his shirt pocket from the floor. "I'm late for my meeting." He ran a hand through his hair, which was already hopelessly disheveled from Harry’s fingers.

 

Harry frowned.

 

His meeting. At 9:30.

 

That meant the session was over.

 

The spell was broken.

 

Harry felt ice cold clarity wash over him and he leapt out of bed. Trying not to think about whether Malfoy was watching him, he crossed the room and rushed to get dressed. His mind was racing and his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

 

“Harry,” Draco said quietly, stepping up to him.

 

His heart leapt. “My glasses,” he mumbled, stumbling as he checked under the chaise. Something appeared next to his head and Harry blinked at it. His eyes followed the familiar shape of his thin black frames to the blond man holding them out. “Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper. He took them and slid them on, watching Draco Malfoy materialize in front of him.

 

His jaw was set and his eyes were wide. “So, about this boyfriend of yours.”

 

Harry’s jaw dropped. He’d forgotten about that part of the plan entirely. The fact that he’d lost himself so completely was more than a little worrying. “I have to go,” he blurted, brushing past Malfoy and out to the front door. He crossed the lobby in four long steps and tried the door, only to find it locked.

 

Malfoy sidled up behind him. “I-”

 

“Just let me out,” Harry pleaded, unwilling to hear whatever accusations Malfoy would make about his character before tomorrow, when he’d be free to explain. “Please.”

 

The blond sighed, retrieved the key to unlock the door, and held it open.

 

Harry stepped out and ran right into Hermione and Ron.

 

“Harry! There you are.” Ron beamed. “Seamus told us you would be around here, saying you’d lost a bet or something.”

 

“Harry, what have I told you about drinking with Seamus?” Hermione added in, furrowing her brow worriedly.

 

A look back to the shop confirmed what he suspected - Malfoy stood in the doorway, having heard everything and come to his own conclusions. His stare turned icy and he frowned at Harry, whose stomach dropped.

 

The door slammed shut before he could manage a word.

 

***

 

The first thing Harry did upon returning to London was visit Seamus’s flat and punch him square in the jaw.

 

The first thing Seamus did after mending his bleeding lip was ask how it went.

 

Harry then demanded Seamus buy him drinks, and spent the night in a depressed mood, pouring his heart out and lamenting his rotten luck and equally rotten taste in friends.

 

Over the next few days, Harry composed a dozen letters to Malfoy, but they all lay crumpled up in the bin. He had no idea what he would say, or even if Draco would be willing to read them. He went back to work on Monday and tried to drown himself in new projects.

 

In about a week, he received an owl carrying a large brown package bearing an elegant logo with the letter M. The photos inside made him feel strange. Malfoy was really good at his job - too good, because he knew he wasn’t the confidant, cavalier man the photos turned him out to be. He turned them front-side down and stashed them in a drawer of his desk, unable to bear the heated look in his eyes that he knew hadn’t been aimed at the camera.

 

It turned out Malfoy had been planning to come back to London for months. There was a gala to be held at a newly-built mansion just outside of Oxford. Harry stared at his invitation numbly. The event was to celebrate the incorporation of several foreign-based entrepreneurs with England’s own in the hopes that it would encourage growth. Malfoy’s name had been at the top of the list, with several merits being awarded to him for business he conducted in photography, fashion, and potion-making.

 

Despite his reservations, Harry found himself at the mansion at four in the afternoon on a saturday. True to his expectations, he’d been accosted by admirers as soon as he’d entered the ballroom just after the award announcements. His hand felt clammy from the amount of hands he’d shaken while being introduced to several hopeful start-ups. He’d barely had time to scan the crowd for blond heads, but he noticed the place was decorated immaculately. Several tables were set up with dishes originating from various countries and the drink fountain was shaped like a rotating globe.

 

“Hi,” a voice materialized by his ear and Harry jumped and spun around to find Draco Malfoy standing there, looking devilish in a fine Muggle suit rather than wizarding robes.

 

“Hi,” Harry answered finally.

 

“I assume you received your photos?”

 

“Er- yeah. Thanks,” he said, blushing.

 

The blond nodded minutely, taking a sip from the wine glass dangling from his fingers. His eyes met Harry’s curiously and his voice lowered so passersby couldn’t hear, “And your boyfriend appreciated them?”

 

Harry took a deep breath. “Actually, Draco,”

 

Draco sent a furtive glance around them before setting his drink on a passing tray, grabbing Harry’s wrist, and leading them across the room and down a narrow corridor The music in the ballroom had started to grow louder, and it was a steady thumping by the time they were sufficiently alone.

 

Harry looked around. “Um.”

 

“Look, Seamus told me everything.”

 

He felt his eyebrows creep up. “Everything?”

 

“Yes,” Draco was smirking. “Even about your hopeless crush on me.”

 

“Sweet Merlin,” Harry groaned, letting his head drop back against the wall.

 

Draco was smiling victoriously. “Actually, he didn’t tell me that. But you just confirmed it.”

 

Harry green eyes widened. “What-”

 

“If I’m being honest,” the blond met his eyes evenly. “I won’t deny his little bet helped fulfill some pretty specific fantasies of mine.”

 

Harry stared at him for a moment, something unnamable blooming in his chest. He glanced around at the –thankfully empty – corridor, pulled the blond inside a nearby loo, and closed the door. "You'd better not be joking," Harry warned.

 

"I don't joke." Malfoy said seriously before breaking into a genuine smile that made Harry's stomach flip.

 

Springing into action, Harry shoved the blond backwards against the door and kissed him, which Draco seemed more than happy to return. "Just so we’re clear," he said, breaking apart momentarily, "I don't have a boyfriend," Harry felt it necessary to mention.

 

The blond dug his fingers into Harry's waist possessively. "I know. I checked.”

 

When he lifted his head to meet Draco's gaze, he was smirking.

 

"Had to make sure there would be no competition."

 

"Would you have fought them if there were?" Harry wanted to know.

 

Draco lifted a shoulder. "I would have simply kidnapped you and whisked you back to France. Still considering it, in fact."

 

"I suppose I could use another holiday," Harry said thoughtfully.

 

Draco pulled him into a long, bruising kiss.

 

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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